She held him near the window, and gazed with almost devouring eyes.
‘He will be handsome—he will be beautiful!’ she said. ‘Oh! it is a shame to say you are not! You are like your papa—you are a thorough Martindale! That is your papa’s bright eye, and the real Martindale brow, you sweet, little, fair, feeble, helpless thing! Oh, nurse, I can’t spare him yet, and you have to unpack. Let me hold him. I know he likes me. Don’t you love Aunt Theodora, babe?’
Sarah let her keep him, mollified by her devotion to him, and relieved at having him off her hands in taking possession of the great, bare, scantily-furnished nursery. Theodora lamented over his delicate looks, and was told he would not be here now but for his mamma, and the Isle of Wight doctor, who had done him a power of good. She begged to hear of all his wants; rang the bell, and walked up and down the room, caressing him, until he grew fretful, and no one answering the bell she rang again in displeasure, Sarah thanking her, and saying she wished to have him ready for bed before his mamma came up.
After her public reception, Theodora would not be caught nursing him in secret, so hastily saying she would send some one, she kissed the little blue-veined forehead, and rushing at full speed down the back stairs, she flew into the housekeeper’s room; ‘Jenkins, there’s no one attending to the nursery bell. I wish you would see to it. Send up some one with some hot water to Master Martindale directly.’
As fast she ran back to her own room, ordered off Pauline to help Master Martindale’s nurse, and flung herself into her chair, in a wild fit of passion.
‘Improvisatrice! Prince’s parties! this is what it is to be great, rich, horrid people, and live a heartless, artificial life! Even this silly, affected girl has the natural instincts of a mother, she nurses her sick child, it lies on her bosom, she guards it jealously! And we! we might as well have been hatched in an Egyptian oven! No wonder we are hard, isolated, like civil strangers. I have a heart! Yes, I have, but it is there by mistake, while no one cares for it—all throw it from them. Oh! if I was but a village child, a weeding woman, that very baby, so that I might only have the affection that comes like the air to the weakest, the meanest. That precious baby! he smiled at me; he looked as if he would know me. Oh! he is far more lovable, with those sweet, little, delicate features, and large considering eyes, than if he was a great, plump, common-looking child. Dearest little Johnnie! And my own brother was like him—my brother, whom my aunt as good as killed! If he had lived, perhaps I might still have a brother to myself. He would be twenty-eight. But I mind nothing now that dear child is here! Why, Pauline, I sent you to Master Martindale.’
‘Yes, ma’am; but Mrs. Martindale is there, and they are much obliged to you, but want nothing more.’
Indeed Violet, who had been positively alarmed and depressed at first, at the waste and desolate aspect of the nursery, which seemed so far away and neglected, as almost, she thought, to account for the death of the two little sisters, had now found Sarah beset on all sides by offers of service from maids constantly knocking at the door, and Theodora’s own Pauline, saying she was sent by Miss Martindale.
Violet could hardly believe her ears.
‘Yes,’ said Sarah, ‘Miss Martindale has been here herself ever so long. A fine, well-grown lassie she is, and very like the Captain.’